


In Another Life

by dancewithme19



Category: Glee, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7871149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancewithme19/pseuds/dancewithme19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways Harry Potter and Blaine Anderson could have become friends, one way they definitely didn't, and the one way they actually did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Troll

It wasn’t that Harry had never noticed Blaine Anderson before The Troll. Even disregarding his distinctly American accent, Harry would have been hard-pressed not to notice the way Ron’s eyes rolled whenever Blaine so much as entered a room.

“Honestly, he’s even worse than Hermione,” Ron had muttered earlier that day. Harry had glanced over at Blaine, in his neatly pressed robes and perfectly knotted Ravenclaw tie, hand raised unabashedly high. Again. Harry could see the resemblance.

Still, “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he muttered back.

After all, Blaine wasn’t the one currently bouncing up and down and waving so hard that poor Neville was in danger of getting an elbow to the nose.

Ron ignored that in favor of glaring at Blaine’s perfectly placid profile.

“He thinks he’s so slick,” he sneered.

Harry nodded vaguely, but otherwise didn’t respond. He didn’t entirely disagree – he just didn’t care enough about Blaine to summon up the energy. He wasn’t worth it, to Harry.

And that’s really what it was. Blaine Anderson mattered about as much to Harry as any other anonymous face in the crowd. He was a swotty Ravenclaw with an almost aggressively charming smile who ate his salad with a knife and fork. Nothing worth kicking up a fuss about.

In fact, Harry didn’t even notice that Blaine was missing from the Halloween feast until he and Ron threw open the door to the girls’ bathroom and found him standing between Hermione and the troll, holding a plate of what looked like tonight’s feast. They were caught so thoroughly by surprise that they could do no more than stand there and watch dumbly as Blaine threw it right into the troll’s befuddled face.

It landed with a splat, and then a tinkling crash as the china fell and shattered against the stone floor.

The troll blinked, slowly, shedding dollops of mashed potatoes from his eyelids like great blobby tears. He made a low, angry noise and lurched toward Blaine, knocking the sinks off the walls as he went. Blaine just stared in horror. Hermione screamed, clearly panicking. It was enough to snap Harry and Ron out of their stupor.

“Confuse it!” shouted Harry, picking up a broken-off tap and throwing with all his might against the wall. The troll stopped, baffled, and started to lumber in Harry’s direction.

“Oy, pea brain!” shouted Ron from the other side of the bathroom, throwing a metal pipe at the troll. The troll turned toward the source of the sound and changed direction once more.

  
From there, it was chaos. They took it in turns, kicking up enough noise and enough debris to keep the troll spinning in circles. Finally, it let out a dull roar and charged blindly, right at Hermione, who was backed up against the wall and frozen still, with no escape route in sight.

Which, of course, was how Harry ended up jumping onto the troll’s back, wand somehow getting stuck up the troll’s nose in the process, while Ron aimed his own wand at the thing and shouted what appeared to be the very first spell that popped into his head.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_!”

It was, as far as Harry could tell, the first time Ron had managed to work the spell properly on the first try.

The troll’s club flew out of his hand, rose swiftly above his head, and fell right back down with a dull thud. The troll swayed on the spot for a terrifying moment, then flopped gracelessly to the ground, taking Harry with him.

The sudden silence was stunning.

“Is it – dead?” asked Hermione tremulously.

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, pulling his wand free with a disgusting snick.

Blaine leaned in cautiously, right up next to the thing’s slack mouth.

“It’s just knocked out,” he said. He was pale, as obviously shaken up by the whole thing as Harry felt. His hair was starting to curl, just at the ends, and he had gravy stains dotting his collar.

It wasn’t long before Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell were bursting into the room. They had been alerted, no doubt, by the racket their scuffle had made.

Hermione spoke up before the rest of them could get a chance. She took the blame for the whole thing, to the shock of all, and even lied to a teacher in the process.

“I went looking for the troll because I – I thought I could deal with it on my own – you know, because I’ve read all about them.”

It was honestly the best show of gratitude she could have given them. McGonagall took five points from her for her “foolishness,” but awarded five points each to the rest of them, which honestly didn’t seem like enough considering that they’d nearly been killed.

They made the trip back to their dormitories nearly in silence. It was Ron who broke it, just before the turn that led to Ravenclaw Tower.

“What were you doing there, really?” he said, glancing at Blaine in a way that was actually more curious than suspicious.

“Oh,” said Blaine, biting his lip. “I was – well, I heard that Hermione was, um, indisposed,” he said diplomatically. “I thought it would be a shame for her to miss out on the feast.”

“He brought me a plate,” said Hermione, chin held high. “He was trying to make me feel better.”

Blaine smiled, but it looked more like a wince.

Ron looked at his feet, the tips of his ears starting to go red.

“That was really brave, what you did,” offered Blaine. “Coming to help us, I mean. We would have been dead without you, for sure.”

Harry didn’t mention that they’d been the ones that had locked the troll in the bathroom, or that they’d felt kind of responsible for Hermione, considering the reason she was in there in the first place. He figured Blaine probably knew that part anyway.

Ron didn’t say anything either. “Thanks,” he mumbled, and Harry followed suit.

Blaine smiled again. It looked more like a real smile this time, and not the dazzler he usually threw about, either. The three of them returned it.

Blaine waved an awkward goodbye when they reached his turn, and the rest of them lapsed into an even more awkward silence until they reached the portrait entrance to Gryffindor Tower. Hermione gave the password, and they entered.

The common room was loud and busy, their feast having been relocated here in the wake of the troll scare. The three of them stopped and looked at each other with no small measure of embarrassment.

“Thanks,” they muttered, and hurried to get fresh plates.

From then on, the four of them were friends. There were some things you couldn’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll was one of them.


	2. The Yule Ball

At this rate, Harry was going to spend more time hiding out in the rose garden than actually at the Yule Ball. Not that this was a tragedy, per se. He’d spent more time dreading this night than he had the prospect of fighting a dragon, after all.

No, it wasn’t the fact that he was missing the ball that had Harry feeling disgruntled. It was the reason.

He’d actually been having a pretty good time this last hour or so, once he and Ron had lost their dates and found something to talk about that had nothing whatsoever to do with Blaine Anderson. Not that giants were of particular interest to Harry, but, honestly, even the mating habits of flobberworms would have been a welcome change in topic. Harry had honestly felt he would go mad if he heard Ron so much as say Blaine’s name again tonight.

Which was why he found himself here, yet again, stalking through the rows of rose bushes.

This time, he was alone. He could hear the blare of the Weird Sisters floating out from the Great Hall, but the night was otherwise silent.

_“Downright rude, he is. Don’t you think, Harry? He hasn’t so much as looked at anyone else all evening. Disgusting. Isn’t the point of this thing to make friends with foreign wizards? Even Fleur is here with a bloke from Hogwarts.”_

Harry kicked at the path in frustration. He’d come out here to get away from Ron’s moaning, not to relive it.

_“I bet they’re just mates. He probably couldn’t find anyone else who met his standards.”_

Harry snorted. That was rich coming from Ron, who’d rejected a girl because her nose was off-center. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory of Ron’s acid tone. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want there to be anything to think about. He quickened his pace, relishing the crunch of the gravel beneath his feet.

_“How many bottles of Sleekeazy’s do you reckon he used on his hair tonight? I swear, the bloke could give Lockhart a run for his money.”_

Harry stopped short. There, on a bench, staring into the fairy-lit fountain, was someone else. The figure was obscured by shadow, but, judging from the gleam of moonlight off his slicked-back hair, Harry had a good idea of who it was. He made to turn around and sneak back the way he came – apart from Ron himself, this was the last person Harry wanted to see right now.

He was too late. Blaine whipped around, hand going to his sleeve, where, presumably, he’d stashed his wand. He paused, brow furrowing. His hand dropped.

“Harry?” he called. “Is that you?”

Harry stepped forward reluctantly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Blaine’s expression shifted immediately, a charming, well-practiced smile warming his features like sunlight. Harry felt himself moving closer, almost against his will. His own smile was probably more of a grimace, but Blaine didn’t seem to mind. He gestured at the bench beside him, the invitation clear. Harry sat gingerly.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” asked Blaine kindly.

_Oh, yeah. It’s been a real laugh._

Harry shrugged.

“Dancing’s not really my thing.”

“Well, I bet your date appreciated that you tried.”

Harry doubted that.

“She’s been off dancing with blokes from Beauxbatons all night, so I suppose she’s happy enough.”

He glanced at Blaine, whose smile had wilted into mild bemusement.

“Is she your…”

He looked at Harry meaningfully, in a way that Harry would have had to be daft not to understand.

“No,” he said quickly. “I don’t have – I mean, there’s no one who – I just needed a dance partner.”

“Ah. I see.”

Blaine fell silent. It seemed he had given up on small talk for the moment. This was Harry’s opening. He looked at Blaine again, ready to mutter something about needing to use the bathroom, and he was pulled up short. It wasn’t anything obvious, nothing Harry could name. Something in Blaine’s expression made Harry want to stay.

“What about you?” he said. “What are you doing out here?”

Blaine blinked, momentarily thrown. He shifted uncomfortably.

“I just needed some fresh air.”

Harry studied him, as covertly as he could manage. It was the first time he’d bothered.

Rita Skeeter had made much of their nonexistent rivalry – Blaine the arrogant American trying to step out from the shadow of his much worthier older brother, Harry the vulnerable orphan whose only wish in life was to make his dead parents proud. Blaine, an older, handsomer, more charming version of Harry, with polish to spare but none of Harry’s raw talent. _With their unruly dark hair and striking green eyes, the resemblance between them is uncanny. One would mistake them for brothers were they not pitted against one another in deadly competition._ Harry had written it off as complete tosh, of course. Blaine’s hair could hardly be described as unruly, for starters, and his eyes were definitely more hazel than green.

Now, though, he could see it. Here, in the semi-dark, he could see something in Blaine’s expression that he recognized. He couldn’t name it, but he’d felt it. He had the sudden, wild urge to offer Blaine a block of chocolate.

“Yeah, it was getting a bit stuffy in there,” he said.

Blaine nodded. He didn’t look at Harry, instead kept his gaze focused on the fountain in front of them.

“Dances can be – um, hard, for me,” he said carefully.

That wasn’t what Harry expected him to say. He would have written it off as nonsense if it weren’t for that look he’d seen, just a moment ago.

“At least you can dance.”

Blaine chuckled. He looked a tad surprised at himself.

“Yes, I suppose there’s that.”

Harry didn’t know what to do with this strange and sudden sense of kinship. It wasn’t as if he and Blaine could be friends. Even if it weren’t for the not-so-aptly-named Triwizard Tournament, Blaine had been causing Ron to go off the deep end since the Ilvermorny delegation had arrived in their flying bus. Under no circumstances did he want to test the strength of their newly-mended friendship.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to have an ally.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about the dragons,” he said. Blaine looked at him, eyebrows raised expressively, but didn’t say anything. “I assumed Professor Schuester would tell you.”

Blaine smiled wryly.

“Mr. Schue doesn’t believe in breaking the rules.”

“Well, it seems like he’s the only one.”

“It’s fine. If the others want to get ahead by cheating, that’s up to them. Not that – I mean, it’s different for you.”

Harry bristled.

“What do you mean?”

Blaine met his eyes. His expression was serious.

“You didn’t choose this,” he said earnestly. “You deserve every advantage you can get. Frankly, I think it’s a travesty that Professor Dumbledore is making you compete at all, considering.”

Harry gaped. He’d figured Blaine saw him the way the others did – a spoiled brat whose hunger for glory had gotten him in way over his head.

“Thanks,” he said.

Blaine smiled. He opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by a voice from behind them.

“Blaine?”

The voice was American. Harry turned and found that, as he suspected, the owner of the voice was Blaine’s date.

“Kurt!”

Blaine rose to his feet, looking torn between delight and sheepishness. Kurt planted his hands on his hips, eyebrows raised so expertly that Harry almost didn’t catch the twinkle of playfulness in his eye.

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Sorry. You were busy dancing with Mercedes. I thought I could be back before you noticed.”

Kurt’s gaze flickered to Harry. His indignation seemed to wilt.

“Yes, well, I noticed.”

“Sorry,” Blaine said again.

Kurt smiled then, softness dawning over his features. It was a private look. Harry almost felt as if he should look away.

“It’s time for the last dance.”

Blaine bowed slightly and held out his arm on offer, the very picture of formality.

“Well, then, would you accompany me inside?”

Kurt took his arm with what Harry could only describe as a girlish giggle. Blaine turned and nodded his goodbye, to which Harry gave an awkward wave. He stared after them, in spite of himself.

_"See there, Harry? That’s his date, there, dancing with the girl in the purple robes. They look awfully cozy, don’t you think? Not the most graceful dancer, though, is he?"_

Harry sighed. He wasn’t sure why that, especially, had rubbed him the wrong way. Ron had always been rather scathing when it came to other people’s shortcomings. There was no reason that this should have set Harry’s blood boiling hard enough to send him out of the castle.

Except, seeing the way Blaine looked at Kurt, he knew that wasn’t right. There was a reason. It just wasn’t a reason he wanted to admit.

Harry stood up. He should head in before Ron came looking for him.


	3. Detention

Harry wasn’t in the mood. It was late, and he had a headache, and he could still feel the imprint of Snape’s prodding in his brain. He felt unclean, as if there had been an oil spill just beneath the surface of his skull. So, of course, when he saw Blaine Anderson of all people striding down the corridor toward him, the last thing he wanted was to stop and chat.

Harry kept his head down and quickened his pace, cursing himself for having left his invisibility cloak behind, but Blaine didn’t seem to get the message. Instead, he stopped in his tracks, clearly startled but covering it with a big, shiny, plastic smile.

“Oh, hi, Harry,” he said brightly.

Harry stopped. He clenched his jaw. He meant to say something brief and aloof, like “Anderson” or “hey,” and tip him a cool nod that said “back off” more eloquently than Harry ever could.

He absolutely did not mean to snap, “What is it now?”

Blaine’s smile dropped immediately.

There was a part of Harry that felt a vindictive thrill at that. It wasn’t a part he was particularly proud of, but it was there. It was the part of him that had been bearing a grudge ever since that first day, when they came in from the welcome feast and saw that there was one more bed in their dormitory than there ought to have been.

It had been the five of them so long that someone new – anyone – would have felt like an intruder to Harry. The fact that Blaine was so…well, _Blaine_ just made it that much worse. _Blaine_ , with his broad, American smile and his cheap cheerleader pep. _Blaine_ , who sang relentlessly in the shower and spent about an hour every morning styling his hair. _Blaine_ , who was just as comfortable talking Quidditch with Ron as he was talking fashion with Lavender. _Blaine_ , who everybody fawned over, who they listened to even as they eyed Harry with skepticism. _Blaine_ , who charmed Hermione and made Ron laugh.

_Blaine_ , who Ron stared at sometimes when he didn’t think anybody was watching.

None of these things were particularly good reasons for disliking Blaine – they were actually, according to Hermione, very petty indeed – but they were Harry’s.

“Doesn’t he remind you at all of Gilderoy Lockhart?” he’d grumbled that very afternoon, watching as Ron trounced Blaine at chess by the window.

Hermione, not even bothering to look up from her Charms essay, had replied rather drily, “What, you mean his dashing good looks?”

Blaine had grinned, as if on cue. The evening sun was striking his face at just the right angle to turn his eyes a brilliant amber-gold. The tips of Ron’s ears went pink. Harry could see it all the way from his vantage point across the room.

“You know what I mean.”

Hermione had sighed.

“Yes, I do, and I think you’re being paranoid. You’d find that he’s quite lovely if you bothered having a civil conversation with him. Even Ron thinks so.”

Harry was well aware.

Now, alone with Blaine in the corridor, feeling drained of everything but the ugliest parts of himself, he had had enough. He was done with pretense.

And so, it seemed, was Blaine.

“What is your problem with me?” Blaine snapped back. His eyes flashed with uncharacteristic anger. His hands were balled up into white-knuckled fists at his sides. “Ever since I got here, you’ve given me nothing but crap!”

Harry laughed coldly.

“Right, because everything is about you, isn’t it? Did you ever think maybe it’s because I’ve got better things to do with my time than to fall at your feet?”

Blaine gaped at him for a moment, taken aback.

“That seems a little crazy.”

“No, what’s crazy is waltzing in here and just expecting the entire universe to start revolving around you.”

Blaine narrowed his eyes.

“Instead of you, you mean?”

“I never wanted to be the center of _anything_!” Harry shouted.

“You think _I_ do?”

“Obviously!”

“All I’ve ever tried to do was make _friends_! Which, by the way, isn’t all that easy when you’re a fifth year transfer.”

“Oh, please, spare me the sob story. You’ve got half the school wrapped around your little finger and you know it. Did you really think it was just a coincidence that there’s always an open spot for you by the fire in the common room, or that the kitchen never runs out of your favorite pudding, or that you’ve never lost so much as a single house point?”

“No, that’s – I mean, I guess I’ve wondered about – ”

“Of course you didn’t, because you’re _Blaine Anderson_ , golden boy. That’s just what you’re owed, isn’t it? But I’m Harry Potter, the _Chosen One_ , and things don’t work like that for me. No, I get people who stare, and whisper, people who think I’m _crazy_ , and others who hate me because they’d rather believe some lie they read in the paper than use their brains.”

Blaine looked at him, studying him. His expression was inscrutable. It was unnerving. Harry was hot and itchy with the anger still trapped beneath his skin.

“I get it better than you think I do.” said Blaine. His tone was gentle. Calm. It made Harry want to scream.

“No, you – ”

“Just because I’m not the Chosen One doesn’t mean I don’t understand what it’s like to be hated for something I can’t control,” Blaine said sharply.

He folded his arms over his chest, a reflexive, self-protective gesture. Harry opened his mouth to shoot back a retort, but something on the back of Blaine’s hand drew his eye. A mark. There, angry and red and hard to make out unless you knew what to look for: _I must not flaunt my perversion_.

Harry went cold. The pieces came together with sickening clarity. His gaze shot up to Blaine’s face. Beneath the façade of defiance, he was pale and shaky, maybe had been all along. Harry had been too focused on his own feelings to notice. His anger drained away so quickly it left him dizzy.

Blaine straightened his shoulders and met Harry’s gaze.

“I just came from detention,” he bit out. “Third time this week.”

“I – I can see that."

“All because I pointed out - quite accurately, mind you - that charming Muggle rhinestones onto your house crest is not in any way a violation of the school dress code! Even if it isn't particularly tasteful. It looked like she was about to lunge at Lavender and rip the thing right off her robes in a second. I _had_ to say something."

"Of course."

"I just don't get how she knew - I mean, how did she _know_? I'm not exactly out and proud here, as much as I wish I could be.”

Harry didn't know what to say, or even if he should say anything at all. It didn't seem like Blaine expected him to, honestly.

Blaine froze. He slumped against the wall, face gone even paler with sudden horror.

"She must have read my file,” he breathed.

“Your file?”

“My file from Ilvermorny. It has my medical records.”

“Oh,” said Harry blankly. He had no idea why that was relevant.

Blaine slid down the wall. Harry sat gingerly beside him. Seeing Blaine like this had him thrown. Blaine was usually so maddeningly composed.

“What, um – why would she care about your medical records?” he asked tentatively. He was aware that it was a rude question, and he half-expected to be rebuffed.

Blaine didn’t answer, not right away. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared, unseeing, at the floor. Harry wished for a wild moment that Hermione were here instead of him. She always seemed to know what to say at times like this, how to offer comfort. All Harry could do was sit through the silence.

When Blaine finally spoke, his voice was thick.

“I came out when I was 13, as soon as I figured it out. I didn’t even really think about it. There were plenty of gay kids at Ilvermorny, and I knew – most wizards in the US are cool with it, you know? It’s just the blood purity fanatics you need to worry about, and even they wouldn’t dare say anything in polite company.”

Harry nodded, more to keep Blaine talking than anything else.

“No one blinked an eye. Not my friends, not the jocks on the Quodpot team, not my parents. I got complacent.” Blaine paused here. He swallowed, seemed to gather his courage. “And then last year, a friend of mine, a Muggle from my home town – he was the only out gay kid at his school, so he asked me to be his date to prom. I said yes, of course. I got special permission to come home for the weekend, and I rented a tuxedo from a Muggle shop. It was my first official date.”

Harry found he had to look away. Blaine face was twisted with anger and hurt. He had a sick feeling he knew where this was going.

“The dance was fine. Lovely, even. But then after, when we were waiting in the parking lot for the limo to come pick us up, these three guys… They beat the crap out of us.”

Harry winced sympathetically.

“That’s revolting.”

“I’d left my wand at home. That’s how naïve I was. I thought accidentally using magic in front of Muggles was the worst thing that could happen to me that night.”

Blaine laughed bitterly, in disgust at himself.

“You couldn’t have known.”

“But I could have at least been prepared.”

“Well, I guess there’s a reason you weren’t sorted into Ravenclaw after all.”

Blaine laughed again, in surprise. It came out squeaky. Harry was charmed, in spite of himself.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Blaine. “The Sorting Hat left it up to me, actually.”

“And you chose Gryffindor?”

“I figured I should learn to be brave.”

Harry looked over at him again. Blaine’s face was so expressive, the pain there so easy to read.

“You’re already brave.”

Blaine smiled at him gratefully.

“Thanks.”

“That woman is evil, you know. Sick. Twisted.”

“I know.”  
  
“Her opinion is worth less than nothing. Believe me, I know.”

Harry held out his own hand, the one with the words _I must not tell lies_ still visible on the back.

Blaine gasped.

“Merlin, how many times did she make you write that?”

“Too many.”

Blaine shook his head disdainfully.

“It just goes to show how low the Ministry has sunk, that they’re willing to let that monster torture schoolchildren just to bury the truth about Voldemort.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. It was beyond rare to hear a pureblood wizard say Voldemort’s name without even the hint of a flinch. But then again, maybe Americans weren’t brought up to fear his name.

“They nearly expelled me last summer for defending myself against a load of dementors.”

“I heard. It was all my mom could talk about for weeks. She has very strong feelings about the, um, _antiquity_ of the International Statute of Secrecy.”

Interest piqued, Harry tried to remember if he’d ever heard Blaine talk about his parents before.

“Your parents work at the Ministry, don’t they?”

Blaine nodded.

“My mom works in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and my dad is an Auror.”

“An Auror? Really?”

Blaine rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“It seems more glamorous than it is, believe me. My dad mostly does surveillance work. Unless he’s on guard duty. You know.”

Blaine shot him a significant look. Harry looked blankly back. He had no idea what Blaine was on about. He opened his mouth to ask, but then he was struck with a memory, a snippet of conversation he’d overheard at Grimmauld Place last summer. He hadn’t even consciously filed it away.

_“...Are you sure we can trust them?”_

_“They’re American, Sirius, not Death Eaters.”_

_“Some would say there isn’t much difference.”_

_“Your wit is astonishing. You would do well to remember that Pam Anderson is the daughter of John Cooper. That, I would say, is a strong enough badge of honor for anyone. Besides, we are not in any position to turn away the extra pairs of eyes, particularly when one of them comes with such a highly trained wand…”_

Harry gaped.

“You mean your parents are – ”

“Dumbledore didn’t want me to tell you,” whispered Blaine, looking around as if Dumbledore himself might materialize out of thin air.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I assumed he had his reasons.”

Harry felt his anger flare up again. This time, it wasn’t directed at Blaine.

“Right,” he muttered. He sighed and stood up, attempting to brush the dust off his robe. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to the tower. It’s got to be pretty close to curfew by now.”

He reached out to give Blaine a hand up. Blaine took it with a grateful smile.

“So, why did you tell me now?” Harry asked, once Blaine, too, was on his feet.

“Because I want you to trust me.”

Funny enough, Harry found that he did.


	4. Shell Cottage

_In all of the excitement, no one had thought to attend to the canary. It had seemed rather foolhardy of Luna to insist so forcefully that it come with them to Shell Cottage, considering that all of their lives were at stake, but Harry had given her the benefit of the doubt. There had to be a reason it had been left down in the dungeon with the prisoners, after all. Harry doubted it was there for their entertainment._

_It wasn’t until the lot of them had worked out sleeping arrangements and started settling in for bed that anyone noticed how strangely the little yellow thing was acting – chirping insistently, in a way that sounded more like shouting than birdsong, slamming itself against the bars of its tiny cage. Even if they had been able to clear their minds of the day’s tragedies, the racket alone would have prevented them from getting a wink of sleep. When Fleur tried to placate it with food, it nipped angrily at her fingers._

_“I think he wants out of his cage,” said Luna thoughtfully._

_She unlatched the door, and the little thing flew out so quickly it was nothing more than a yellow streak in the air. It landed delicately on the floor beside them, and then – well, Harry felt a bit stupid for not guessing, actually, because a moment later there was a young man standing there in its place. He looked about Harry’s age, handsome, with dark hair that looked as though it had once been neat but was now as messy as Harry’s own. He blinked, startled, then straightened his shoulders and smiled broadly, in a way he clearly meant to be charming._

_“I’m Blaine,” he said. “Blaine Anderson.” His accent was American, his voice low and melodic. “Does anybody happen to have a fresh change of clothes I could borrow?”_

_Harry glanced at Ron. Ron didn’t notice. He was too busy staring at Blaine. Drinking him in. Harry looked away. He felt his jaw clench of its own accord._

_“I do,” he said. “But maybe you’d better answer some questions first.”_

_Blaine put his hands up, clearly taking note of Harry’s tone._

_“I’m on your side, I swear. My parents are Pam and Ken Anderson, they’re members of the Order.”_

_Harry opened his mouth to voice his skepticism – he could be a spy, after all, a plant left in the dungeon for them to ‘rescue’ out of the goodness of their soft hearts – but then Ron snapped his fingers._

_“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Well, not you you. Bird you. I was in a spot of trouble with some Snatchers, and you swooped out of nowhere and started pecking at their eyes. There was a great yellow dog, too – looked about as vicious as a flobberworm, but he got the Snatchers running scared. Bloody brilliant, it was. I don’t know how I would have gotten away if you hadn’t distracted them.”_

_Blaine’s smile returned with all the force of sunshine._

_“Happy to be of service,” he said. He paired it with a mock bow, but still managed to sound utterly sincere. He swallowed, smile slipping. “You haven’t by chance seen the, um, the dog again have you? Golden retriever, answers to the name Sam? We got separated during our last raid.”_

_Ron shook his head._

_“Sorry, can’t say we have.”_

_“Is he an Animagus too?” asked Hermione. Her voice was still a little weak, but had lost none of its authority._

_“Yeah. He’s my best friend.”_

_“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” said Luna in that dreamy way of hers. “Dogs have a way of doing that.”_

_Blaine didn’t seem to quite know what to make of that._

_Bill took the opportunity to step forward, looking for all the world as if he’d been pulled away in the middle of brushing his teeth. There was a dot of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. “I’m Bill Weasley,” he said affably, holding out a hand to shake. Blaine took it with a polite smile. “I’ve met your parents on several occasions. They speak very highly of you – though, last I heard, they seemed to be under the impression that you were safe in America, finishing your final year at Ilvermorny.”_

_Blaine shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, well, things change.”_

_Bill made no further comment on the matter. “You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like,” he said, with a glance in Ron’s direction._

_“Do you know where they are?” asked Blaine. “My parents, I mean.”_

_“I’m afraid not. They went into hiding some time ago. Their location is kept under Fidelius.”_

_“Who is the Secret-Keeper?”_

_“I don’t know that either. I’m sorry. It’s for their own protection.”_

_Blaine nodded, looking deflated._

_“I know. Thank you anyway.”_

_“Let’s find you a place to sleep, shall we?” said Fleur, in a manner that struck the balance between business-like and sisterly._

_“We’ll make room, won’t we Harry?” said Ron with an eagerness that Harry did not care to explore._

_“Sure,” said Harry. He hoped he didn’t sound as glum as he felt. Hermione shot him a sympathetic smile._

_With Fleur leading the way, they trooped out of the kitchen. Ron hung back, taking up the rear with Blaine._

_“I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.”_

_“Pleasure to meet you. Officially, I mean.”_

_Harry glanced back. The tips of Ron’s ears had gone red._

_Harry felt a pang in his stomach._

It was rare that Harry found himself alone these days. Aside from the fact that Bill and Fleur’s little cottage was currently full to bursting with about five times its natural capacity, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were spending most of their time holed up together, making plans for the big heist. It was for the best, really – Harry didn’t particularly want to be alone with his thoughts.

This morning, though, Harry had woken up feeling hot and itchy under his skin. He’d gone out for a walk immediately after breakfast, swiftly declining Hermione’s offer for company. The look she’d given him was understanding, but Harry could tell she was a bit miffed.

Ron, on the other hand, had done nothing more than toss him a cheery wave on his way out the door. He’d hardly been paying attention anyway, engrossed in a conversation with Blaine about the relative merits of Quodpot and Quidditch.

Harry may have slammed the door on his way out, just a little.

The property wasn’t large, but it had spectacular views of the ocean. The feeling of the sea breeze against his face was enough to dispel the worst of his claustrophobia. It wasn’t long before he felt better, more centered, ready to tackle another day of poring over hand-drawn blueprints.

As he approached the kitchen door, he noticed that it had been left partway open. It must have bounced back when he slammed it. He had his hand on the knob, an apology ready on his lips, when he heard something that made him stop.

“So, what’s your story, anyway?”

It wasn’t so much the words that gave Harry pause but the tone. The teasing, almost intimate tone that Harry knew from long experience meant that Ron was flirting. Before he was even consciously aware of his decision, he dropped down to sit on the steps, out of sight.

“My story?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, you’re meant to be safe at school right now, an ocean away. How did you end up here?”

“I told you, my parents – ”

“ – don’t know you’re here.”

“No. I suppose not. I might have snuck out of school and used the credit card they left me to buy plane tickets.”

“You _flew_ here? On an _aeroplane_?”

Blaine laughed. It sounded…affectionate. Harry grimaced.

“I was desperate.”

“Or bonkers.”

“Probably both.”

“What was it like?”

“Not too bad. You actually forget that the thing isn’t running on magic after a while. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to fly, but considering that they don’t have the luxury of Undetectable Extension Charms, that wasn’t surprising. The bathrooms were hardly big enough to turn around in.” Blaine laughed lightly. “Although, I swear I saw a couple coming out of one together, looking like they’d just – well, like they’d been participating in activities that are typically done in a more sanitary environment. Apparently, it’s a thing.”

Ron laughed. Rather harder than was merited, Harry thought.

“That’s incredible, that is.”

“You’ve got to hand it to Muggles – it’s pretty amazing what they can do without magic.”

Ron murmured his agreement. Then, after a moment, “I still don’t get it. That’s a lot of trouble to go to just to throw yourself into harm’s way.”

“You could say the same thing about yourself.”

“That’s different. Harry is my best friend. And even if he weren’t – well, let’s just say You-Know-Who isn’t too keen on keeping my family around. We’re just about the biggest blood traitors in the country, I’d reckon.”

There was a pause. Harry was tempted to look, but the last thing he wanted was to be seen.

“I had my reasons,” said Blaine eventually.

“I assumed,” said Ron drily.

“I hadn’t heard from my parents in months, not since the Ministry fell. I didn’t even know if they were dead or alive. I was also – I had just gone through a really bad break-up.”

“So bad you had to leave the country?” said Ron incredulously.

“So bad I wanted to. I – I didn’t feel like I had anything worth staying for. Not when I knew there were people dying here, and worse, people like my parents. Not when there was something I could do to help.”

“That’s…that’s really admirable.”

Ron’s voice was more than admiring – it was besotted. Harry wanted to throw up.

“I’m not the one traveling with Britain’s most wanted wizard.”

Ron snorted.

“No, just with – Sam, was it?”

“My best friend. He caught me trying to sneak out of our dorm. Wouldn’t let me leave without him.”

“Is that…all he is? Your friend?”

Blaine laughed lightly.

“Sam’s super straight. Though, I have to admit, he is kind of my type.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“You know - tall, handsome, blue eyes. Makes me laugh.”

“Is that so?”

“Mm.”

Harry had to look then. The silence was – well, not quite silent. The part of him that was definitely a masochist had to know.

It wasn’t the first time Harry had seen Ron kissing somebody. No, Ron had actually developed quite the reputation for public snogging during their sixth year, starting with a rather revolting display with Terry Boot on the Quidditch pitch after their first victory of the season. That relationship didn’t last long, but it was enough to give Ron a sense of just how desirable he really was. He'd gone through almost the entire population of gay, bisexual, and sexually fluid boys in the upper grades by the end of the year. Harry had hated every second of it, but was able to live through it because – because there was nothing real about any of them, nothing Ron wanted to hold onto at the end of the day.

This felt different. How, Harry couldn’t say. He could only feel it. This felt like trouble.

Maybe it was the hand cupping Blaine’s jaw, the reverence in Ron’s touch. Maybe it was the way Harry could see a hint of a smile at Ron’s lips, even from here.

It didn’t matter. Harry stood up and ran. He couldn't go far, but he could get there quickly.

It was supposed to be him.

_Least loved, now, by the boy who prefers your sister…_

Every bit of that night with the locket was burned into his brain. The image of himself and Ginny, entwined with more passion than Harry had ever mustered for her in reality. The anguish on Ron’s face as he watched. The feeling Harry had been starving for, of Ron’s arms wrapped tight around him, and the warmth that had bloomed through his body in spite of the cold winter air. He wouldn't ever be able to forget that.

It was the night he knew. He could have it, what he’d longed for since before he’d even learned his own heart. It would be his in a second if he just said the words.

But he hadn’t. Ron had looked at him sheepishly, waiting for news of his fate, and Harry had changed the subject.

_Maybe_ , he’d thought. _Maybe if we both survive this war…_

Perhaps it was better this way.

Harry slumped to the ground, close enough to the cliff’s edge that he could fall, were there a strong enough wind. It felt as though he were sitting on the edge of the world.

He wished he had his Firebolt with him. He closed his eyes, concentrated on the the wind whipping cold against his cheeks. He imagined himself soaring 50 feet above the ground, imagined the rush and the swoop of it.

It almost worked.

He heard the sound of measured footfall approaching him. He opened his eyes on reflex but didn’t look back.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Lovely,” said Harry drily, willing Blaine to take the signals he was sending out and leave.

“May I sit with you?”

Harry shrugged, unable to justify being outright rude to someone who had done nothing to earn it. Blaine took that as assent and sat next to him. He moved with the kind of natural grace that Harry had only ever felt on a broomstick.

They sat for a time in silence, staring out at the ocean. Harry could feel Blaine’s eyes on him occasionally, but still he didn’t look.

“Ron told me about you and his sister,” said Blaine. A tad too casually. “You must miss her.”

Harry didn’t know where Blaine was going with this, but he didn't like it.

“Ginny’s great,” he said shortly.

“Ron talks about the two of you as if you’re meant to be.”

“Ron doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“You mean, he doesn’t know that she isn’t the Weasley you really want?”

Harry looked at him sharply. Blaine’s expression was mild, more compassionate than aggressive. With those big, soulful eyes of his, it was clear he was used to getting people to confide in him.

“That’s ridiculous.”

Blaine raised his eyebrows. They were very expressive.

“Please. You aren’t exactly subtle.”

Harry’s heart leapt with the beginnings of panic.

“He doesn’t – ”

“No, don’t worry, he’s completely oblivious.”

“Good. I don’t want him to know.”

“Why not?”

“What, you mean apart from the fact that I just saw the two of you snogging your faces off?”

Blaine had the good grace to look sheepish at that. He ducked his head. His cheeks had gone a tad pink, but that could have been an effect of the wind.

“We’re not – I mean, it isn't – even if we both wanted it to, it would never work out between us. We both know that.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure that was true, but perhaps Blaine himself was oblivious to how utterly smitten Ron had become with him. He let it alone.

“It’s fine. It’s not like I have any say in the matter.”

“But you _could_. If you told him, you could.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m the _Chosen One_ , aren’t I? There’s a good chance I won’t even be alive at the end of all of this.”

“Isn’t that all the more reason?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you face You-Know-Who, wouldn’t you rather have something to fight for than something to regret?”

"I have plenty to fight for."

And plenty to regret, for that matter.

"You know what I mean."

"What does it even matter to you?"

"I just want to help."

"Right," Harry snapped. "Well, shoving off would be a good start."

Blaine looked stricken, eyes gone unnaturally wide, but he made no move to leave. Instead, he squared his jaw and looked out toward the ocean. When he spoke, his tone was infuriatingly calm.

“My ex-boyfriend and I, when we were together – we had all these plans for our lives after Ilvermorny. We would move to Wizarding New York and find a cute little place that we could fix up together. After a short period of professional struggle, we would get discovered and become wildly famous, like Celestina Warbeck. We would get married in a small but tasteful springtime ceremony. We even picked out names for our kids – or, well, we argued about names for our kids. We never could come to a final agreement.” Blaine smiled wistfully. “We thought we were soulmates. And then I ruined it.”

The way he said it was deliberately matter-of-fact, but he couldn't hide the pain beneath. Part of Harry was satisfied at this evidence that Blaine wasn't perfect after all. The rest of him was immediately ashamed.

Harry cleared his throat.

“You broke up with him?”

Blaine pressed his lips together. He was still looking intently out at the cresting waves below.

“No, I – I hurt him. He was a year ahead of me in school, so we had to do long distance while I finished up my studies. It was a lot harder than I thought. I started to think he was moving on, building his own life in New York without me. I was so sure he was going to leave me behind. So I cheated on him with the captain of the Quodpot team. He broke up with me.”

“Oh.”

“I left the next day. I couldn’t stay there. If I had – I don’t know, maybe I could have earned his forgiveness. Maybe we still could have had that future we used to dream about. Now, he wouldn’t even know if I died.”

“That’s one hell of a regret.”

Blaine smiled ruefully.

“Yeah, it is. So don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t throw away something wonderful just because you’re afraid you might lose it.”

The way Blaine was looking at him was perhaps a bit too sage, but the intention behind it was utterly sincere. Harry found it difficult not to find that charming.

“What if – what if I tell him and he doesn’t want me back?” he said very quickly. “What if he decides he wants someone else more?”

“That’s not possible.”

Harry knew that wasn’t true, but it also wasn’t worth the argument. It seemed petty, considering how generous Blaine was being.

“I’ll think about it,” Harry said grudgingly.

Blaine smiled, satisfied.

“That’s all I ask.”

Harry glanced back toward the house.

“We should probably go back, so that Ron can stop pretending he isn’t watching us from the kitchen window.”

Blaine laughed good-naturedly.

“True,” he said. “We wouldn’t want him getting any ideas.”

They both got carefully to their feet, but before they could start toward the house, Harry clapped a hand to Blaine’s shoulder. It felt clumsy. It wasn’t often that Harry initiated that kind of physical affection.

“Thank you,” he said seriously. “For the talk, I mean. You didn’t have to do that.”

Blaine shrugged.

“Of course. What are friends for?”


	5. Five Years Later

Hermione plopped into the chair next to Harry, sighing in decided relief.

"I don't think I've danced this much since the Yule Ball," she said, fanning herself. She looked tired but happy, a few tendrils of curls slipping out of their severe style to brush against her flushed cheeks.

"You and Neville were looking awfully cozy out there."

Hermione scoffed, looking at him in that way she'd always had of making him feel like he should already know what she was about to say.

"Neville has been dating Hannah Abbott for months. Didn't you notice that they came together?"

"Well, yeah, but you came with Ron. It's not like there's anything happening there."

"Too true. Though he is looking terribly handsome this evening. In another life..."

There was a twinkle of laughter in her eye, belying her wistful tone. Harry mustered up a smile. It was a joke between them now, but he remembered how devastated she'd been after the incident with Terry Boot their sixth year.

He couldn't help but glance at Ron, across the room at the refreshment table. He did look handsome tonight. His dress robes broadened his shoulders and brought out the deepest shades of blue in his eyes.

When Harry looked back at Hermione, she was studying him sharply.

"How was your date with Oliver?" she asked. "You never told me."

Harry ignored the pointed inflection of her eyebrow. He took a sip of his butterbeer.

"Alright. He's a great bloke."

"But?"

"But it felt about as romantic as an evening at the pub with Seamus. The only thing we have in common is Quidditch."

"How did the two of you leave it?"

"Well, I'm here alone, aren't I? What does that tell you?"

Hermione's face immediately shifted into an expression of concern.

"Oh, Harry, you're not alone!"

Harry patted her hand, a bit awkwardly.

"Don't worry, Hermione. I know. Poor choice of words."

The truth was, he didn't really mind being dateless. Today was hard enough as it was, without the added pressure of entertaining someone he barely knew.

Hermione relaxed, but her eyes were still keen.

"You know, there are plenty of eligible bachelors here tonight. I doubt that any of them would say no to you."

Harry made a noncommittal noise. Frankly, that was one of the things he hated about events like this.

"Well, I am the savior of the Wizarding world," he said wryly.

"And Witch Weekly's Sexiest Wizard Alive five years running."

Harry groaned.

"Don't remind me."

It was a nightmare, seeing himself leering out from practically every shop in Diagon Alley. Ron had convinced him to make an effort at this year's photo shoot, rather than doling out his usual uncomfortable smile. The result had been deeply unfortunate.

Harry glanced at Ron again. He was smiling broadly at his companion, standing close enough that the bloke had to look up to meet his eyes, close enough that he could lean down and...

Harry looked away before his imagination could get carried away with itself.

"It might be good for you to meet some new people."

"Would you please just mind your own business?" he snapped.

Hermione's eyebrows shot straight up.

"I'm going to ignore that, because I know how stressed you've been and how deeply in denial you are, but I would appreciate it if you would remember, in the future, that I'm only trying to help."

"Sorry," said Harry, chastised. Hermione nodded her acceptance. "You know, I'm guessing there are quite a few blokes in the room who wouldn't mind getting chatted up by Hermione Granger."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Her tone was arch but her expression warm.

"Just trying to help."

"I'll bear that in mind."

Harry's attention was drawn to the stage. The slow, sweet warble of a classic Celestina Warbeck ballad had faded to silence, and the band was back, ready to play their second set. At center stage was none other than Blaine Anderson, the American pop sensation whose voice had been clogging the Wireless for about the past year. Harry didn't know all that much about the bloke, other than the fact that the Ministry had considered it quite a coup to land him for this year's Victory Ball. And, of course, that Ron had been flirting with him quite shamelessly all evening.

Ron was still standing by the refreshment table, alone now. He had apparently forgotten that his best friends were here and might actually like to spend a little time with him now that Blaine had peeled himself from his side.

The whole room seemed to have forgotten, actually, about anything and everything that wasn't _Blaine Anderson_. The second he stepped on stage, without even saying a word, he held them in the palm of his hand.

Harry didn't know what it was about him that had everyone so hypnotized. His classic good looks, maybe, or those eyes of his that rivaled a house-elf's for both size and sheer earnestness. Whatever it was, Harry had only felt power like that once: almost exactly five years ago, when he faced Voldemort in front of everyone he'd ever loved and said, "It's got to be me."

Otherwise, people had really only ever looked at Harry because he was famous. They looked at Blaine because they wanted to.

Ron was looking at Blaine now. Actually, _gazing_ might be a better word. Ron was gazing at Blaine as if starlight was shining from his ears. Harry felt like screaming.

The dance floor was flooded practically the second the music started. It was an upbeat, catchy kind of song featuring such improbable rhymes as " _Feels like Amortentia, Just know that I was meant for ya..._ " Harry recognized it, mostly because Mrs. Weasley had recently developed a habit of singing it under her breath as she prepared dinner.

She and Mr. Weasley were amongst the dancing couples, cutting an unimpressive but highly enthusiastic figure in the middle of the floor. Near them, Bill was twirling Fleur, Angelina was manhandling George into an elaborate dip, and Parvati and Lavender seemed to just be jumping up and down with their arms around each other. Neville and Hannah were doing an off-rhythm waltz around the outskirts.

Even Hermione seemed to have fallen under the spell. She had turned her back to Harry in favor of watching the performance, foot tapping against the leg of the table.

On stage, Blaine was doing some sort of dance move that vaguely resembled stirring a cauldron. He winked, which should have been cheesy, but somehow turned out charming instead.

Ron seemed to agree, because his ears went brick red. He reached out to pour himself a glass of pumpkin juice, but he couldn't seem to tear his eyes from the stage long enough to do it properly and ended up trailing his sleeve in the bowl. It was as if he'd drunk a de-aging potion that brought him back to the age of about fourteen.

"Merlin, you'd think the bloke was part Veela," Harry muttered. It was loud enough for Hermione to hear, were she not engrossed in the performance.

Harry was actually pretty sure she was singing along.

"You wouldn't be too far off," a voice said tartly from behind. It was a high, rather musical voice, one that Harry didn't recognize. He whipped around, his hand moving to his wand on instinct.

The man raised an eyebrow, affecting nonchalance, but his posture was stiff with shock.

"Sorry," said Harry, relaxing back into his seat. "Hazard of the profession."

"I guess it was silly of me to sneak up on Harry Potter of all people. I didn't mean to - I mean, I couldn't help but overhear."

The bloke was American. Harry could hear it in his accent, of course, but he probably could have guessed it from across the room. He wore Muggle clothes with the kind of stylish flamboyance that only an American wizard would dare.

"Do you know him?" asked Harry. "Anderson, I mean."

"You could say that. I'm here as his plus one."

"Are you and he - ?"

"Friends," the man said quickly, deflating hopes Harry didn't even know he had. "Best friends, actually."

"Ah."

The bloke gave a stiff, closed-lip smile and stuck out a hand to shake.

"I'm Kurt Hummel," he said.

"Nice to meet you. I'm - "

"Harry Potter, I know."

"Er, yeah."

"And I'm Hermione Granger," said Hermione, having caught wind of their conversation. She smiled brightly and shook his hand. "Have a seat, won't you?" She shot Harry a quick, meaningful look that, hopefully, Kurt didn't see.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to impose."

"Nonsense," said Hermione. "In fact, I think I'll leave you boys to it. I see someone who owes me a dance."

She ignored Harry's glare of disapproval and disappeared into the crowd, looking entirely too pleased with herself. Harry turned back to Kurt. He smiled, attempting to disguise his annoyance. It wasn't Kurt's fault.

Kurt sat gingerly in the chair next to Harry, the one with full view of the stage. He downed the dregs of whatever he'd been drinking. Some sort of firewhiskey concoction, probably.

He was actually a fairly attractive bloke, now that Harry had the chance to really look at him. His features somehow managed to be both sharp and soft, neither handsome nor pretty but somewhere in between. The lines of his body were lean and elegant. His hair was styled in a flattering upward swoop so immaculate it had to be the result of spellwork.

Harry admired his appearance in the same bloodless way he might admire a well-crafted broomstick. Still, he could see why Hermione had been so quick to shove them together.

Kurt drummed his fingers against the side of his empty glass. He wasn't looking at Harry, but not really at the stage either. He didn't seem to know what to say.

"So, er, how did you and Blaine meet?" asked Harry politely.

"School," said Kurt. "We did choir together. He got all of the solos."

Kurt's wry smile turned fond as his gaze moved up to the stage.

"Are you a singer, too?"

"An actor. Off-Broadway, mostly."

Harry had only a vague idea of what that meant.

"Ah."

The song ended. Across the room, Harry could see Ron applauding with so much force Harry was worried he might be causing himself blisters. He looked away.

Kurt was watching him.

"Is he your - ?"

"Friend. Best friend."

"He seems to be enjoying the show."

Harry snorted. It wasn't particularly kind.

"He's enjoying a lot more than that."

"Blaine tends to have that effect on people."

There was an edge to his tone that Harry wasn't sure he understood.

He looked at Blaine again, the center of the universe. He looked at Ron, caught in his gravity.

"Should I be worried?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is he going to break my best friend's heart?"

Kurt's eyebrows shot up.

"Break his - that's a little premature, don't you think? They've known each other for all of three hours!"

Harry was painfully aware of that fact.

"You don't know Ron like I do."

"What, is he the obsessive stalker type?"

Harry had to bite back a comeback that would have been very rude indeed.

"He tends to give his heart away to people who don't deserve it."

"Well, that's not Blaine."

"Good."

"Great."

"It's just, I've met a lot of people who seem to think that being famous is an excuse to treat people like shit."

Kurt's eyes flashed.

"Well, clearly you're one of them."

He stood up quickly, chair scooting violently backward. He turned to go, a glare in Harry's general direction his only farewell.

Harry mentally reviewed what he'd said. Kurt might have had a point.

"Wait," said Harry. "Sorry, I didn't mean to - I may have been a tad out of line."

Kurt sat back down, gaze wary. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"You were trying to protect him. I get it. I have a best friend, too."

Harry offered him a smile. Kurt returned it, his lingering frostiness melting away.

"Just so you know," Harry said abruptly, "I'm not actually looking for anything, er, romantic. In case that wasn't clear. Hermione just doesn't know how to take no for an answer."

Kurt blinked. A hint of a flush had risen in his cheeks.

"Don't worry, I didn't think - I mean, yes, obviously, you're the savior of the Wizarding world, and you're actually kind of my type, but you're also way out of my league. I mean, you're Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake. It's crazy enough that I'm even talking to you right now."

"That's - I don't know if I'd - "

"Not that it matters. I'm not on the market myself, not really. I'm focusing on my career right now. You know how it is."

"Er, yeah."

"My friend Rachel is always trying to set me up. She of all people should get it, but she and her husband are about to open a show together on Broadway, so I think she's forgotten how hard it can be to find time for romance when you're still trying to establish yourself. Plus, the only people she knows that we haven't both known since forever are Muggles. Which, obviously, isn't a _problem_ , per se, but it's really hard to get close to a guy when you can't even tell him who you are, you know? And then, what if you decide he's the one, and you do tell him, but then he freaks out, and suddenly you have this whole _Bewitched_ situation on your hands?"

Harry didn't understand that reference. Something American, probably. He ignored it in favor of asking, "What about Blaine?"

Kurt went very still. He looked away. When he looked back, it was as if a wall had come up between them for all that Harry could read the emotion on his face.

"We tried. It didn't work out."

It took Harry a moment to work out what Kurt meant. That actually wasn't what he'd been asking about at all. But it certainly did explain a few things.

"Oh. That's - I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago. We've both moved on."

Somehow, Harry wasn't convinced this was true.

"Right," he said, for lack of anything better.

His attention drifted to the stage, where Blaine was now seated behind a piano, singing soulfully about lost love. Ron was still watching with the kind of rapture he usually reserved for Cannons matches.

"What about you and Ron? Did you ever...?"

Harry's heart fell to his stomach with a thunk.

"No," he said.

That was all Kurt needed to know.

He didn't need to know about that night six months ago when Harry had drunk half a bottle of Ogden's Old and splinched off the nail of his left pinky toe Apparating to Ron's flat. He didn't need to know how heartbreaking Ron had looked when he opened the door, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, grin growing wide as he realized just how pissed Harry was.

_"How was it, then? From the looks of you, I'd say pretty bloody tremendous."_

_Harry laughed. It wasn't funny. Maybe that was why he was laughing._

_"There were photographers waiting to ambush us outside the restaurant. Turned out he owled the Daily Prophet while I was in the toilet."_

_Ron's expression changed instantly to indignant outrage. It created an adorable furrow in his brow._

_"What a wanker!"_

_"It's okay. He was a bit of an idiot anyway. He kept checking his reflection in the silverware when he thought I wasn't looking."_

_"Probably getting ready for his photo shoot."_

_"He doesn't even have a Quidditch team. He said he just roots for whoever is winning."_

_"Tosspot."_

_"He did me a favor, really."_

_"I take it you stopped off at the pub after?"_

_"Too many people. I went home and cracked open the bottle George gave me for my birthday."_

_"Seems like you didn't stop there. Your liver is well and truly pickled, isn't it?"_

_"You sound like Hermione."_

_"I had dinner with her. Maybe it's rubbing off."_

_"Is she still here?"_

_"Nah, mate, it's two in the morning."_

_"Can I come in?"_

_Ron stepped aside. Harry stumbled in his haste to get through the door. Ron steadied him, palm warm and wide between Harry's shoulder blades._

Kurt didn't need to know how close to the surface everything had felt that night, how Harry had looked at Ron and seen sunshine and warmth and every good thing he'd ever known, how that touch to his back had made his heart beat so hard he was afraid it would crack a rib.

How he'd grabbed his best friend's face and kissed him, just like that. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn't been holding himself back from it for years. Ron hadn't even had a chance to close the door.

For that one moment, the world was perfect.

And then -

_"What are you doing?"_

_This was wrong. Harry's brain was muddled, his feelings clearer than his thoughts, but he knew this was wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen like this._

_Ron's hands were on his shoulders, holding him firmly back. He looked distraught._

_"I - " Harry started, groping for the words that would make him see, make this what it was supposed to be._

_"No. No, I don't want to hear it. I can't do this, Harry."_

_"I love you."_

_"You're drunk."_

_"I love you when I'm not drunk, too."_

_"No, you don't. You can't, or you would have said something before now."_

_"I - "_

_"You've had years, Harry,_ years _of knowing how I felt about you - "_

_"I know, it's - "_

_" - and how - how embarrassed I was. The sidekick with a hopeless crush on his best mate. Pathetic, right?"_

_"No, it's - "_

_"And now, of course, now when I've met someone who makes me feel like I've got a shot at actually moving on, now is when you decide to come to my door in the middle of the night, pissed out of your bloody mind, and snog me without so much as a word of warning. Why would you do that?"_

_"I told you, I - "_

_"Why now, Harry?"_

_"Because I don't_ want _you to move on, Ron! Don't you get it?"_

_That was enough to pull Ron up short._

_"What are you talking about?"_

_"You moved out, you quit the Aurors - you keep leaving me over and over, and I - I was afraid before, I was, because I need you, Ron, and I thought - but you keep leaving, and leaving, and I'm going to lose you anyway, if I don't do anything. So here I am. Doing something."_

_It all made sense in his head, but from the way Ron was looking at him, it didn't seem to make much sense to him._

_"Let me get this straight - you kissed me so that I would, what, follow you around forever, like a puppy begging for scraps?"_

_"No! I told you, Ron, I love you."_

_Ron seemed to soften slightly, in spite of himself. Harry could see it, how much he wanted to believe him. Harry tried to step closer, to touch him, to convince him, but his balance was still off-kilter. He stumbled. Ron steadied him, but his gaze had gone hard._

_"Bollocks. Are you even going to remember this in the morning?"_

_"Of course I will. Don't be ridiculous."_

_"Good. Then maybe you'll remember this, too: you need to let me move on, Harry."_

They hadn't spoken of it since. Not the next morning, not when Ron's boyfriend inevitably broke his heart, not ever.

Kurt didn't need to know any of that.

"So, how long are you and Blaine in London, then?"

"Just a few days. I have to be back for rehearsal on Monday."

"New play?"

"Workshop, actually. It's for this biographical musical about Oscar Wilde."

"Right."

Harry's ignorance must have been clearly displayed on his face, because Kurt clarified, "He was a 19th century British playwright. Kind of a gay icon." He didn't do a great job concealing his amusement.

"Yeah, I'll be honest - 19th century Muggle literature isn't my strong suit."

"What is your strong suit, then?"

"You know, Quidditch, defeating dark wizards, that sort of thing."

Kurt made a face of distaste.

"Quidditch. That's like British Quodpot, right?"

"Well, I think it's more like Quodpot is American Quidditch, but yes."

"You'll have to talk to Blaine, then. He watches Quodpot religiously. I go to games with him sometimes, but only because I like a good scarf."

Harry nodded. There wasn't much to say to that.

Applause broke out around them, signaling the end of a song. Harry spotted Hermione walking off the dance floor arm-in-arm with Dean Thomas. Perhaps the nostalgia of the day had inspired them into one of their on-again phases.

"Thank you," Blaine was saying on stage, waiting for the applause to die down. "Thank you again for inviting me here tonight. I wish I could tell you what it means to me to share in your celebration and help you honor those who gave their lives, but I've never been all that good at putting my feelings into words. I'm hoping this last song will do it for me."

He nodded at the band behind him, and they started playing a song that Harry recognized but couldn't place.

_"Blackbird singing in the dead of the night,  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly..."_

"Is this one of Blaine's?" he asked, glancing over at Kurt.

Kurt didn't answer right away. He seemed to be transfixed.

"The Beatles," he murmured eventually.

"Oh. Right. It's, er, it's nice."

Kurt nodded. He looked to be on the verge of tears.

It was lovely, actually. A simple melody, sung with feeling. Harry couldn't help but be touched.

_"All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free."_

The music ended, and there was a moment of stunned silence before the applause began.

Kurt was far from the only one in the room wiping discreetly at his eyes. He was just the only one who looked angry at himself for it.

Harry busied himself fiddling with the napkin in front of him.

Kurt cleared his throat. Harry glanced at him. He wasn't looking at Harry, but the private moment seemed to be over.

"Blaine's father was killed in the Battle of Hogwarts," said Kurt. "Did you know that?"

"I thought - I mean, isn't he American?"

"His parents came over to join the Order as soon as they heard that Voldemort was back. His grandfather was one of the founding members.

"I had no idea."

"It's one of the reasons he wanted to come tonight."

"I'm glad he did."

Harry meant it, too, funny enough.

Blaine took his final bows and left the stage, heading straight for Ron. Ron greeted him with a friendly but lingering hug. He said something into Blaine's ear that Harry assumed to be exceedingly complimentary. Blaine pulled back, ducking his head and looking up at Ron through his lashes.

A Weird Sisters hit was playing now, a slow song that was meant to be danced to. It looked as if Ron and Blaine were heading onto the dance floor to do just that, but then Ron looked up and caught Harry's eye, and Harry realized what was happening.

Kurt seemed to realize it, too. His spine stiffened, head cocking slightly to the left. His smile of greeting looked just as painful as Harry's felt.

Ron didn't seem to notice.

"Hey, Harry," he said. "There's someone I'd like you to meet. This is Blaine. You know, Blaine Anderson? He put on a great show, didn't he?"

He didn't even look at Harry.

Blaine grinned, clearly pleased with Ron's attentions. He looked Harry in the eye and offered a hand to shake. His eyes were even bigger and shinier up close.

"I've heard a lot about you," he said. "It's such an honor to meet you."

Harry took his hand.

"You, too. You, er - Ron was right, you were great."

"Thanks. That really means a lot, coming from you. I'm just glad to be here." He glanced at Kurt, enthusiasm dimming into bemusement. "I see you've already met Kurt."

Harry nodded politely. "We ran into each other."

"Kurt Hummel," said Kurt by way of introduction, reaching across the table to shake Ron's hand.

"Ron Weasley."

"It's such a weird coincidence, the four of us meeting like this," said Blaine, redoubling his efforts. His smile had gone a tad too enthusiastic to be natural.

"Must be kismet," drawled Kurt.

"The four of us will have to have dinner or something before you go back to the States, yeah?" said Ron, obliviously cheerful.

Kurt nodded, mustering a smile. Blaine was watching Kurt, concerned, but agreed easily when Ron turned to him.

"Sounds fun," said Harry. And maybe it would be. He hadn't seen Ron smile like this since - well, it had been a long time. "You know, any friend of Ron's."


	6. Diagon Alley

It had been a long day. The kind where every lead turns into a dead end and the only reward for your labor is a stack of paperwork and the lingering sting from a hex you were too slow to deflect. Harry was tired, and hungry, and, frankly, starting to question his decision to accept the promotion to department head.

He was also trying not to think about how late he was. He'd sent ahead a Patronus, but he knew he was pushing it nonetheless.

He stumbled his way out of the Floo in his haste, half-expecting to find that Ron had already left. But no, there he was on the sofa, nursing a butterbeer and thumbing through a magazine, feet propped up on the armrest. The Wireless was on in the background. He turned toward the clatter of Harry's graceless entrance.

"There you are!" he said with an easy grin. "I was starting to worry you'd been eaten by a Nargle."

"Aren't Nargles vegetarian?"

"No idea."

Harry hung up his sooty cloak and leaned over to give Ron an upside-down kiss hello. It was sloppier than he intended. Ron's nose poked uncomfortably at his chin. Still, it made Ron chuckle.

"Is your mum going to be mad at us?"

"She's fine. She's a whiz with warming charms."

"I hate making us late."

"Then you'd better go get changed, don't you think?"

Ron winked, then gave him a swat on the butt for good measure.

Harry snorted.

"What am I, a piece of meat?" he shot over his shoulder as he headed back to the bedroom.

"A nice tender rump roast, I'd say."

"Funny, I thought you were more interested in sausage."

"Only yours!"

Harry shed his work robes and started loosening his tie.

"How was work?" he called. He heard the unmistakeable sound of Ron's footfall over the floorboards as he ambled back to the bedroom.

"Not too shabby." Ron leaned against the door jamb, watching him in a way that most people would call leering. "Someone knocked over the love potion display, ruined the whole batch. The bloke spent the next hour singing love songs to a pygmy puff while George cooked up the antidote. It was almost worth the trouble for the free advertising. He got us enough orders to keep us busy for about the next six months."

"Sounds much more exciting than my day."

"Yeah?"

"Spent most of it in the office doing dead-end research, then went out to question a witness - who, by the way, turned out to be about a Quaffle short of a Quidditch match, if you know what I mean. Ten minutes in, she goes completely bonkers and tries to chase me off the property. So then, of course, I had to write up an incident report about a mile long and get checked out in the infirmary, which was a total waste of time."

"You had to go the infirmary?"

"She got a couple of hexes through. Nothing serious. Protocol, you know how it is."

"Yeah, and I also know how you are."

Harry sighed, but shot Ron the reassuring smile he knew he needed.

"I'm fine, I promise. Just a bit of soreness."

Ron came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Harry's waist. He hooked his chin over Harry's shoulder. Harry's body instinctively relaxed into the hold.

"Sounds like a rotten day."

"Utterly. This part's nice, though."

Ron smiled. Harry could feel it against his cheek. He turned around in Ron's arms and gave him a quick kiss.

"You are going to have to let me go, though, if we want any hope at all of seeing your family this evening."

"I don't know, Harry, that's not all that convincing."

"I bet your mum's made treacle tart for dessert."

That did the trick. Ron sank onto the bed with a dejected sigh. Harry chuckled and retrieved his shoes from the closet.

"Oh," said Harry, remembering. "There was one good thing that happened today. Or, you'll think it's cool, at least."

Ron perked up.

"Yeah?"

"Guess who I ran into at Quality Quidditch Supplies?"

Ron's brow furrowed with indignation.

"When were you at Quality Quidditch Supplies?"

"At lunch. You know how the smell of a new broomstick cheers me up. Anyway, there was a bit of a crowd outside, which I didn't think was all that strange. I just assumed the new models were out, you know. But then I went in, and I started looking around, and I practically ran into him."

"Who?"

"Guess."

"I don't know, Viktor Krum?"

Harry shook his head.

"He was in that magazine you were looking at."

"Lots of blokes are in that magazine. _You're_ in that magazine."

Harry sighed, exasperated.

"He was on the Wireless when I came in."

Ron's eyes went huge.

"You met Blaine Anderson?"

"Well, _met_ might be a bit strong. The only words we exchanged were 'Excuse me,' and 'sorry.'"

"Blaine Anderson was in Diagon Alley today?"

"Apparently."

"Blaine Anderson was in Diagon Alley and I had no idea?"

"What would you have done if you'd known?"

"I don't know, chased him down and asked for his autograph? Charmed him with my sparkling wit and convinced him to run away with me?"

Harry smirked.

"Well, he had his husband with him, so I'm not sure that last one would have worked."

"Too bad."

Harry finished tying his shoes and turned to face Ron.

"How do I look?"

"Hungry."

"Too right."

Ron stood.

"Shall we?"

"Can you do the honors? Honestly, I'm so tired I'd probably splinch us both."

Ron held out his arm for Harry to take and pulled out his wand.

"Alright, dear, just close your eyes and think of England."


	7. Eleventh Birthday

It had been a good day, all considering. Not the eleventh birthday of his dreams, perhaps, but Blaine wasn't a kid anymore. He did understand that a brand-new grand piano would be impractical, and that a classic movie themed sleepover party would be unpopular, and that tickets to the touring production of _Wicked_ weren't even on sale yet. He was perfectly happy with the party he'd had, and grateful for the gifts he'd been given.

He just kind of wished that Cooper had remembered to call. That didn't seem like too much to ask.

The last time Cooper had been home for Blaine's birthday was three years ago, when Cooper had still been living at home. He'd prepared a special performance for the party and then given three encores, even though no one had asked him to. He'd saved up and bought Blaine tickets to the Maroon 5 concert. To this date, it was probably the best present he'd ever given Blaine. The tickets were in the nosebleed section, and Blaine now suspected that they had originally been intended for the girlfriend that Cooper had just broken up with, but still.

This year, all he'd done was send a clearly store-wrapped paperback copy of _Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone_. There wasn't even a card. He'd probably done an Internet search for "books that kids like" and just chosen the one at the top of the list.

It felt silly, how much that hurt. Blaine used to feel like Cooper knew him better than anybody in the world (except maybe Mama, but she was his mom and therefore didn't count). Now, it was like they were strangers. And Cooper didn't even seem to care.

Blaine picked up the book. Part of him wanted to throw it out the window. The other part wanted desperately to find out if there was more to it, if Cooper had been thinking of him after all, when he'd picked it out. Blaine himself didn't know anything about _Harry Potter_ , other than what he'd seen in movie trailers and gleaned from the excited chattering of his classmates. Honestly, it didn't sound like his thing. What with the silly spells, the owls who delivered mail, the made-up sport with nonsensical rules - the whole thing sounded, well, childish. And Blaine Anderson was most definitely not a child.

With a sigh, Blaine flopped back onto his bed. He'd give it a try. It wouldn't hurt to see what all the fuss was about.

" _Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much..._ "


End file.
